Liquidate Paris (14 page)

'Hallo, hallo. This is Betty Grable here.'

'I don't think so,' said the Legionnaire.

He tried again. A new voice spoke:

'This is Hella 27. This is Hella 27. In urgent need of a doctor. Hella 27, Hella 27.'

Someone else in a bad way, but that was no consolation to the pain-racked Heide.

'Keep trying,' said the Old Man, grimly.

It took us about five minutes to make contact with someone from our own side.

'Wild Cat 133. We're listening to you.'

'We need a surgeon,' said the Legionnaire, briskly. 'Got a case of appendicitis on our hands.'

'All right, keep in contact. Where are you?'

The Legionnaire swore.

'What do you take me for? Mind your own business and find that surgeon!'

At the other end, the unseen operator chuckled.

'All right, keep your hair on. Here's the medico now. Good luck, pal!'

There was a pause, then a new voice spoke.

'This is Lt.-Colonel Eicken here. How do you know it's appendicitis?'

The Legionnaire swiftly reeled out a list of Heide's symptoms.

'Fair enough, you're probably right. I don't know where you are, but in any case I couldn't reach you so you'll have to manage it on your own. I shall give you the instructions step by step, it's up to you to follow them-- and no messing about or you'll have a corpse on your hands. Is that understood?'

The Legionnaire glanced at the Old Man and nodded.

'O.K., we're ready.'

'Right. -First thing to do is wash your hands in alcohol. Next, smear the patient's abdomen with iodine and make sure he's tied down securely.'

To Little John's horror, Porta at once began covering Heide with neat whisky. There was no iodine in the medicine case and whisky seemed as good as anything by way of substitution.

'When you've done that, sterilize the instruments in alcohol. You should have a litre of it.'

'We have,' said Barcelona,' in surprise. 'Now if I'd known that, it wouldn't still be there!'

'Lay out the pads of cotton wool ready for staunching the blood. Hold the scalpel firmly but lightly. Make the incision on the diagonal, cut through to about ten centimetres.'

The voice went on to give cold, precise details as to where the incision should be made. The Old Man did his best to carry out the instructions. I noticed that his hand was surprisingly steady, though his forehead was awash with perspiration. It had been impossible to anaesthetize the patient and Heide's demonic screams cut shrieking through my head like a dentist's drill. We had tied him down with the straps on our gas masks but it still needed four of us to keep him still.

'There's an awful lot of blood,' reported the Legionnaire, who was following the operation from his post at the radio.

'Don't worry about the blood. Use the cotton wool pads and try to keep the working area dear. Hold back the skin on either side of the incision with the clips provided. Now cut a bit deeper, but take great care not to go through the intestines. How is the patient's breathing?'

'Good enough for him to keep screaming.' said the Legionnaire.

'Well, stand by with the rubber mask and oxygen you've got in case it becomes necessary. Can you see the appendix yet? It's about the size of your little finger, slightly curved.'

The Old Man nodded. Heide was still yelling and Little John closed his eyes at the sight of the welling blood. The Old Man wiped the sweat off his face and shook his head.

'You'll have to shut him up somehow, I can't stand it much longer.'

Little John opened his eyes and raised one enormous, clenched fist.

'You'll have to forgive me, Julius. I'm doing it for the best, there's nothing personal about it.'

Two blows were sufficient. The nerve-racking screams ceased and we put the oxygen mask over his face.

'We've anaesthetized the patient,' reported the Legionnaire.

'How?'

'Knocked him out.'

There was a silence.

'Is he still breathing? How's his pulse?'

'Pretty fast.'

'All right. One of you keep an eye on it and report to me the minute anything goes wrong. Have you found the appendix?'

'Yes, we've got it.'

'What does it look like?'

Intrigued in spite of ourselves, we all craned over and peered into Heide's open abdomen.

'Large and inflamed,' said the Old Man.

'Large and inflamed,' relayed the Legionnaire.

'Very well. Take the long, curved instrument out of the medicine case. Hold the intestine out of the way and cut off the appendix at the lower end. Take your time and don't panic Just make sure you don't cut the intestine. When you've removed the appendix, bathe the stump in alcohol.'

The Old Man said afterwards that for him personally Heide's appendicectomy was the worst moment of the whole war. I can Well believe it. If you've never seen the inside of someone before it's pretty difficult to find your way around, and to this day we're not too sure that what the Old Man eventually cut out was indeed the appendix. But he cut something out, and he sewed up the wound just as the doctor told him, very neat and natty with six stitches, varying considerably in size but tied off with good tight knots, and we then smothered the area with sulphonamide powder and swathed the patient in bandages. And the wonder was that at the end of it all he was still alive.

'You'll have to stay put for the next couple of hours, the patient can't be moved before then. If anything at all happens, anything you're worried about, call me on the same wavelength and let me know. I shall be here all the time, but you'd better close down now before we have the enemy getting too interested in us. At the end of two hours try to make your way back to base and get the patient into hospital as soon as possible. The best of luck--and whatever you do, don't try anaesthetizing him again!'

The Legionnaire took off his headphones. The soothing voice of authority was no longer with us and we felt alone and helpless with the mummified figure of Heide. We made him as comfortable as possible, camouflaged the tank and sat tensely with weapons at the ready. Heide slowly returned to consciousness, his face white and pinched, his pulse scarcely discernible.

'Am I dying?' he muttered.

'No such luck,' said Porta, bracingly. 'If you can survive that butchery you can survive anything... Look what we took out of you!'

Heide looked, and promptly swooned away. Barcelona turned round with a finger to his lips.

'Enemy convoy coming up the road.'

From the scanty cover of the trees and our own camouflage we watched a procession of armoured cars filled to the brim with American infantrymen. At the same time, three Jabos swooped down from the sky, so low that we could see the bombs slung under their bellies.

'If that lot catches sight of us well all be dying,' grumbled Porta.

The column passed by, the Jabos flew on. For an hour we were left in peace and then there was another load of traffic to disturb us. We spotted them when they were still some way off, a couple of Shermans with their distinctive white stars at the head of a column of jeeps and armoured vehicles. As they passed us their crews hung out of the turrets, singing and shouting, sublimely unaware that they were within striking distance of our heavy Puma, which could easily, had we felt aggressively inclined, crushed them beneath her like eggshells.

'Why don't we have a bash at 'em?' demanded Little John, who nearly always was aggressively inclined. 'I bet their mouths are full of gold chobblers.'

'Not worth it,' said Porta. 'There are far too many of 'em.'

Little John watched fretfully as the end of the column disappeared into the distance. Our two hours were up and it was time to turn the Puma into an ambulance for Heide. We threw out the front seat and with immense difficulty and many groans from the semi-conscious patient managed to get him through the hatch.

'Shut up beefing!' snapped Porta. 'You're not sick any more, we yanked out the bit that'd gone rotten. You're just making a fuss over nothing, so shut up!'

We avoided the main road, it was too full of traffic, and instead went by the more tortuous side roads that the Americans tended to ignore.

Shortly before nightfall we arrived back at base and Heide was promptly transferred to a field ambulance. As for the rest of us, we were hauled up before the medico and given a long lecture on the shortcomings of our medical case. It appeared that not only had the iodine been missing but also a vital roll of sticking plaster and a couple of clamps.

'Unless, of course, we sewed them up inside Julius?' wondered Barcelona.

It was always a thought.

A certain Robineau, a Resistance worker in the Port-en-Bessin network, had had the misfortune to fall into the hands of the Feldgendarmerie, who lost no time in subjecting him to the particular brand of torture they reserved for those of his kind. They beat him, burnt him, half drowned him;-broke his arms in several places and taught him how to lick up his own vomit. He confessed, in the end, that the man who gave him his orders was a Dr. Sustendal of Luc-sur-Mer.

The doctor was called in for what was euphemistically termed 'questioning'. To begin with, he hotly denied all the accusations levelled at him, which was a source of great joy to his interrogator: the longer a suspect held out, the more fun it became. They subjected him to the same treatment as Robineau, and still the doctor held out. They decided at last to confront him with the battered and almost unrecognizable form of Robineau and to judge his guilt from his reactions.

The two victims were accordingly brought face to face. The doctor at first remained impassive: this cringing object with its face swollen to the size of a full moon, its bruised and toothless mouth hanging open, its useless, dangling arms and its blood-caked body, bore no resemblance to the man he had known as Robineau. Robineau had been a proud young man on the threshold of life, broad-shouldered, straight-backed, bending the knee to no one. Unfortunately, the miserable Robineau recognized the doctor. He fell sobbing at his feet, begging for forgiveness in a voice as feeble as a child's. And it was then that the doctor broke.' Personal torture he could stand, but the realization that this broken wreck of humanity was none other than the defiant Robineau of a few weeks back was more than he could take. He confessed everything and was accordingly sentenced to death. The following day, Robineau reasserted his rights as a human being and succeeded in hanging himself in his prison cell.

A LOST MACHINE-GUN

Our combat group, together with Oberleutnant Lowe, were billeted in a large house that stood near, the entrance to the village. The occupants of the house were an old couple who had barely managed to grasp that there was a war going on, and almost certainly had no idea what it was about. During the whole period of the occupation so far they had had a German officer quartered on them--an officer of the old school, who still believed he was serving his emperor. Before his departure he had thrown a magnificent dinner party for all the notables of the village, civilians and military alike, at which the crowning glory had been the aristocratic von Holzendorf with his constant, contemptuous references to Hitler as 'the little Bohemian corporal'.

As far as M. and Mme. Chaumont's experience went, therefore, German officers were a breed of supermen, possessing immense elegance, exquisite manners, extravagant tastes and the very best connexions. Their confusion on being confronted by Oberleutnant Lowe was a joy to behold. Could this rough-looking creature with his filthy uniform and dusty boots be a genuine Prussian officer? From the expressions on their faces, I gathered that they had strong doubts on the subject.

Lowe saluted briefly and told them their house had been requisitioned.

'I beg your pardon, sir?' said the old fellow, indignantly.

Lowe raised an eyebrow.

'I said that this house has been requisitioned for use by
the
Army... I'm sorry if it disturbs you, but there is a war on, you know.'

Monsieur Chauinont indignantly drew himself up and stretched both arms protectively across his doorway.

'I suggest, sir, that you produce your requisition order!'

Oberleutnant Lowe stared at the man in cold amazement. Behind me someone sniggered, and behind M. Chauinont his wife opened her eyes wide in horror and disbelief at the sight of Porta, with his one fang and his villainous visage.

'This is an outrage!' she said--and she then saw Little John striding up the path with his arms full of telephone wires and equipment, and I thought for a moment that she was on the verge of a fit.

Of course, Little John wasn't exactly a reassuring sight for an elderly lady.

'What's that?' she demanded, pointing to him.

Lowe jerked his head round.

'One of my men carrying out his orders,' he said, briefly. 'I repeat, Madame, I'm sorry if it disturbs you but we all have to suffer a certain amount of inconvenience.'

Little John trundled peaceably on his way, round to the back of the house. He was followed by Heide, fit once more after his traumatic experience under the knife, busily unwinding lengths of cable. They were following instructions and preparing to set up the central telephone post in the kitchen.

'I really must object, sir,' said M. Chaumont, shaking in every limb. 'Our last officer was a very fine gentleman, he would never have behaved in such a manner. I warn you, if you persist in forcing your way in I shall carry my complaints to the very highest authority!'

'Do,' said Lowe, cordially. 'Might I suggest you get in touch personally with von Rundstedt? If he gives you no satisfaction, I'm sure General Eisenhower will be only too glad to help.'

The old chap fell back, baffled and silenced, but when it came to setting up a machine-gun on the roof he burst forth again in a fresh stream of protest.

'You call yourself an officer, sir? I am astounded! The Count would never have conducted himself in such an uncouth fashion. He was a perfect gentleman in every respect, it was a pleasure to have him here. He was a guest in our house, he----'